I shifted my gaze to the front window and waited for Anarchy to arrive.
I didn’t wait long.
He must have put the siren thingy on the top of his car to arrive so quickly. It wasn’t there now, but the unmarked police car still stood out like a sore thumb in a parking lot filled with imports. Well, not as much as the car with California plates.
I trotted outside and knocked on the window of Anarchy’s car.
He opened the door. “What happened?”
“I was playing bridge with friends, and Stormy appeared and threatened me.” I glanced toward her car. “She was escorted out of the club, but her car is still here.”
“How long ago did you have her thrown out?”
“I didn’t have her thrown out.” Not exactly. “She wasn’t in compliance with the dress code.”
Anarchy’s face contorted as if he was trying very hard not to roll his eyes.
I glanced at my watch. “It’s been at least three hours since she was asked to leave.”
He nodded and walked toward the car with California plates.
I followed him.
He peered through the driver’s side window.
I did too.
A patchwork denim shoulder bag rested on the passenger seat.
Anarchy eased the car door open and reached for the bag.
“Is it hers?”
He couldn’t help himself. He rolled his eyes. He also stuck his hand into the bag and withdrew a worn leather billfold.
He opened that and pulled out a driver’s license. “Stormy Mack.”
“Not Harney?”
He shook his head and showed me a driver’s license with Stormy’s picture. Her face was fuller and the haunted, hunted look in her eyes was absent.
He scanned the card. “Expired.”
He would notice an infraction right off.
“She was escorted out?” he asked.
I nodded.
“By whom?”
“Two waiters. Reginald, the assistant manager, supervised.”
“I’ll need to speak with them. Where’s your car?”
I pointed five spots down.
“Do you know how to pop the hood?”
“Of course.” What was one more lie?
He pursed his lips as if he could tell I’d fibbed. “Give me the keys.”
He could definitely tell. I handed over the keys.
Anarchy popped the hood, eyed the engine, closed the hood, and dropped to the pavement where he scooted on his back until his head and part of his shoulders were under the car.
He scooted into the open. “Your car is fine.” He stood and returned my keys.
“Thank you.” I looked around the parking lot. Anywhere but his eyes. “I played bridge today.”
“Oh?” He sounded slightly bored. As a man, he didn’t understand the sheer volume of information that could be gleaned at a bridge table.
“I heard John Phillips was hit by a car.”
“Oh?”
“It can’t be a coincidence. Do you have any leads?”
His eyes narrowed. “You ask a lot of questions.” Translation: he had no intention of answering.
“You’re not going to tell me?”
He answered with a quirk of his lips and a quick, decisive shake of his head.
Dammit. “Well then, here’s another question for you.”
He raised a brow.
“Where did Stormy Harney go without her purse or her car?”
Sixteen
Anarchy followed me home.
If he had any thoughts on my parking the Triumph in the garage instead of its customary spot in the circle drive, he kept them to himself. Sort of. “We need to talk,” he said.
Nothing pleasant has ever followed those words. A thoroughly unpleasant melting sensation took hold of my intestines. “Fine. Come in.” I unlocked the backdoor and stepped into the kitchen.
Anarchy followed me inside. “Where’s Aggie?”
“It’s Tuesday. She’s doing the marketing.”
“And Grace?”
I glanced at the clock on the stove. “She’ll be home shortly.”
“And Max?”
The dog ambled in and yawned big enough so that even Mr. Magoo could see past his tonsils and into his stomach, then he rubbed his head against my leg.
I scratched behind his ears. “Have you been sleeping on my bed, you naughty dog? Do you want to go out?” I wasn’t above using my dog to delay a conversation I didn’t want to have.
Max wagged his stubby tail.
I held the door open for him. He meandered outside and sniffed around the yard, looking for the absolute perfect place to relieve himself. Take your time.
“Ellison.” Anarchy’s hand brushed against my shoulder. Did he feel my muscles tense?
I didn’t turn. “Wait a minute. If he sees a rabbit, he’ll be gone.”
For once, Max completed his business and trotted immediately back to the house. Drat. Couldn’t he chase a squirrel or investigate the back neighbor’s fence? Nope. He wanted a biscuit.
I handed over a dog treat. “Would you care for anything to drink? I can make coffee.” Mr. Coffee sat ready and waiting to do exactly as I asked. He never asked to have awkward conversations.
“Nothing. Thank you.”
I opened the refrigerator door and moved things around. The ketchup ought to be next to the mustard not the milk.
“Ellison.” Anarchy’s voice held an edge.
I grabbed a Tab and a lime and turned to face him. “What?”
He leaned against the counter, cool beyond words, handsome beyond belief.
“I know, I know. You want to know why Stormy Harney showed up at the country club.”
He scowled. “I want to know what’s going on with you.”
I tightened my grip on the Tab, denting the can. “Nothing.”
“That’s not true.” He moved toward me. I didn’t budge. I couldn’t. Bumps on logs had stronger wills than I did. Anarchy ran the tip of his finger along the line of my jaw, setting off all sorts of shivery sensations in places that had no business shivering over a man’s touch. “Tell me.”
“The truth?”
“No.” He grinned. “Lie to me.”
He wanted the truth? Fine. “Every man I know—” I shot an apologetic glance at blameless Mr. Coffee “—wants to run my life.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.” I took a sip of Tab. I had to. The dryness in my mouth threatened to turn my tongue to dust.
“I don’t tell you what to do.”
I choked on a sip of Tab. “You told me to stay away from Stormy and your investigation.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt. And I’d tell anyone who’s not a cop the same thing.”
“Really?” Sarcasm twisted my voice into something unpleasant.
“Really.” His voice was matter-of-fact. He believed what he was saying. “Has Tafft been forcing you to do things?” Now his voice held an edge.
“No.”
“Then who?”
I crossed my arms and backed away. “I don’t want to discuss this.”
Anarchy was stuck. If he forced the issue, he was just one more man telling me what to do—or in this case, what to talk about. “That husband of yours really did a number on you.”
Wanting to stand on my own two feet wasn’t about Henry. It wasn’t about my past. It was about my future.
“What if I promise not to tell you what to do?” His eyes twinkled.
I shook my head. “You can’t help yourself.”
“I bet I can.” His finger returned to my jaw and his touch nearly melted my resolve.
“You can’t.” Even as the words left my mouth, part of my brain wanted them back. Just as part of my body wanted to fall into his arms and let him take care of me—chances were he’d do a bang up job. I took a step backward. Away from him.
His lips thinned. “I figured I’d spend the next year or so c
ompeting with Tafft.” His hand reached toward me. I didn’t need another case of the shivers. I took another step back.
“I don’t know how to compete with this.” His voice was soft.
“With me wanting to be an independent woman?”
He offered me half of a smile. “Are you going to roar?”
“I might.”
Now I got the full smile in all its bone-melting glory. And his eyes…why did they have to be the exact shade of coffee? He was making this whole independent woman thing difficult. Chances were he knew it.
Brnng, brnng.
Thank God. I snatched the phone from the cradle.
“Hello.”
“You were wrong.” A woman’s voice traveled down the phone line.
“Who is this?”
“You were wrong.”
“You already said that.” I was not in the mood for games. “Who’s calling?”
“Brooks’ brother just offered me ten thousand dollars to go away. He wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t have a claim on Brooks’ inheritance.” Stormy Harney. I’d had visions of her dead and buried in a sand trap. Not hardly. Her voice held a na-na-boo-boo quality that set my teeth on edge.
And Robbie Harney was an idiot.
“When did you see Robbie?”
“I saw him in the parking lot at your club.” She spat the last word. “He took me out for a drink and made his offer.”
“If I were you, I’d take the money and run.”
Across from me, Anarchy raised a brow.
“I want what I came for,” said Stormy.
“I thought you came for Brooks. That you wanted to win him back.”
“That’s what I just said.”
“No. It’s not. You said you came for his money.” Had she killed him to get it? It wasn’t much of a stretch—no stretch at all—to imagine Earl dressed in a clown suit.
“You twist everything around. Besides, it doesn’t matter. Brooks is dead.”
I had no response to that and a silence fell between us.
“What’s the man’s name?”
“What man?”
“The trust officer. The one your friend told me about.”
“Jay Fitzhugh.”
“I’m going to call him. He’ll hand over the money.”
“You should.” Maybe when Jay made it clear she’d never see a dime of the Harney fortune, Stormy would take Robbie’s offer and go back to California.
“Where can I reach him?”
I gave her the name of the bank. “Do you want the number?”
“I have a phone book.” She sounded as spiteful as a five-year-old denied ice cream. Then I heard a dial tone.
I stared at the receiver in my hand. “She hung up on me.”
“Stormy Harney?” asked Anarchy.
His question was probably rhetorical, but I nodded anyway. “I left a message about her for you. Did you get it? Brooks asked her for a divorce.”
“I got the message, but she has an alibi for the night he was killed.”
“What about her brother?”
Anarchy donned an unreadable expression—his cop face. “I’m not telling you what to do, but as a favor to me, would you please stay away from those people?”
“I will.” It was an easy promise to make. I wanted nothing more to do with Stormy or her knife-wielding brother. “I promise.”
A repetitive clunking thud carried through the closed backdoor.
“What’s that?” he asked
“Bessie. Aggie’s home.” I opened the backdoor and started out.
“Where are you going?”
“She’s been to the store. I’m going to help her carry groceries in.”
“You help your housekeeper with the groceries?”
That was not worth a response. I walked outside and took a bag from Aggie’s arms.
“That cop is here,” she whispered.
That cop. It’s not that Aggie dislikes Anarchy. She’d just rather see me with Hunter.
“Be nice,” I whispered back.
“When am I not?”
“Good point.”
We entered the kitchen where Anarchy had resumed his slouchy, arms crossed, brown eyes more seductive than coffee pose.
Aggie didn’t seem to notice. “Good afternoon, detective.” Her voice was crisp, business-like.
“Good afternoon. May I take that for you?” He plucked a bag of groceries from Aggie’s arms and put it on the counter.
“Thank you.” She returned to the door. “There’s another bag in the car.” Out she went, leaving me alone with Anarchy. The silence between us itched.
“I should get going,” he said.
I didn’t argue. “Thank you for helping me.”
“You can call me anytime you need me.”
I blinked.
“I’m willing to wait for what I want.” He rubbed his jaw reminding me how his fingers felt on my jaw. “For who I want.”
Ding dong.
Saved by the bell. Thank God. “I should answer that.”
Together we walked down the front hall and into the foyer. I pulled open the front door. My father stood on the other side.
He noticed Anarchy and his eyes narrowed. “What’s happened now?”
“Nothing.” That really wasn’t a lie.
“Oh? I heard Brooks Harney’s widow accosted you at the club.”
“She’s just frustrated because she can’t get her mitts on Brooks’ money.”
“So she did accost you?” My father looked annoyed, missed-an-easy-putt-and-lost-the-club-tournament annoyed.
“No. She yelled at me. That’s all.” She’d accosted Libba but since that—for the most part—had been unintentional I saw no need to mention it.
“We need to talk. Would you please excuse us, detective?” It was a dismissal.
Anarchy studied us both then he nodded at me. Curtly. “Of course.” He slipped through the front door.
My father glared at me. “You get into trouble everywhere you go.”
That was a gross exaggeration. I glared back. “I do not.”
“I want you safe.”
“I appreciate that. I do. But I’m not getting married again so you don’t have to worry about me.”
“That’s not why I want you to get married.”
“Oh?”
“A good marriage would bring you happiness and security and—” he glanced around the foyer with its bombe chest topped by a bouquet of mums, gleaming hardwoods, and crystal chandelier “—stability.”
If he’d asked me, I would have told him I was already plenty happy, secure, and stable.
“I don’t want to get married.” Especially not for those reasons. If I ever said “I do” again it would be because I was in love.
His brows drew together. Given his patrician features, I felt like the establishment was frowning at me. “Did you talk to your sister?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“I told her how you felt.”
“You didn’t talk her out of the operation?”
“No. It’s her choice. We should respect it.”
“Listen, Sugar. You two are my little girls—”
“We’re not. We’re adults. We have families. We have daughters of our own.”
“You’re still my little girls. I still want to protect you.”
How to convince him that his job as a father wasn’t to protect us, it was to teach us how to protect ourselves? “You’re going to have to trust that we can protect ourselves.”
“Like the other night? A man held a knife to your throat.”
This debate of ours was going nowhere. That or my father was winning. In either case, it needed to stop.
“I’m very grateful that you and Mother happened along.” We both knew it was Mother who’d insisted they drive to my house for an explanation. There was no way my father, left to his own devices, would have roused himself on a Friday night to search for the reason Hunt
er Tafft had been led out of the club party.
“I love you, Ellie.”
“Then have some faith in me.”
That earned me another scowl.
Aggie stuck her head full of sproingy curls into the foyer. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Olivia Forde is on the phone. She’d like to come at ten instead of eleven. Is that all right?”
I hadn’t even heard the phone ring. “Fine.”
“Olivia Forde?” asked my father.
“She’s a decorator. I’ve decided to redo Henry’s study.”
My father grunted his approval. Decorating—or redecorating—was a legitimate way for a woman to spend her time.
“Could you try and understand my point? Please?” I walked toward Henry’s study and the telephone. “I’m an adult.”
He shook his head. “Try and understand mine. You’re my daughter. It’s my job to look out for you.”
It was time he retired.
Olivia Forde stood in the exact center of the study and turned a slow circle on the sensible heels of her Ferragamos. Those flats were a surprise. I’d expected any decorator Libba recommended to be impossibly chic. Not Olivia. In addition to her flats she wore a twin set and a plaid skirt. Like her shoes, she looked sensible—the type of woman with whom I might enjoy sharing a bottle of wine. “The carpet will have to go.”
And she had good taste.
“Agreed.”
“And the walls. Do you want to paint the paneling?”
“Absolutely not. Can we have it sanded and stained a lighter color?”
She nodded. “Of course, but that will cost you.”
“No paint.”
“I agree.”
Of course she did. She’d just added to her bill.
“What about a light pecan shade?”
“You’re the decorator.”
“Yes, but you’re an artist. If you’re not happy with the color, you won’t be happy with the room.”
No wonder she was developing a mile-long client list.
“I’m in no hurry. Have the walls sanded then stain a swatch the color you think would work. If I like it, we’ll continue with the whole room. If not, we’ll try again.”
She jotted something on a legal pad. “About the floor.”
Send in the Clowns (The Country Club Murders Book 4) Page 17
